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“How many women have you seduced with talk like that?” I grinned, reaching up to adjust his bow tie.
“I do not know. For I can’t think of any other woman but you. Did women exist before you?”
I bit my lip to stop from smiling. He knew sweet talk for sure. And I was sucker just basking in it.
“Thank you,” I said, slowly looking over his attire. “Now, on to you. This outfit…”
“Is not of the correct times?” he asked, and I nodded. “Yes, I figured, but it was what I wore when I first came here. Apparently, I have not had time to update my international wardrobe.”
“You stayed in this room?” I asked, surprised. “Wait, this building was here in 1920?”
“Apparently, though I doubt this place looked exactly the same. However, what is more important is that I left things behind, which is not normal for me. I do not leave things with those not of my family. So, either I trusted Taelon more than I can understand or something happened. But what could it have been?” He moved, shifting so I could see the things on the bed. There was a black, engraved pen, a golden pocket watch on a chain that was still ticking, as well as a leather-bound notebook with a worn cover, which he lifted and gave to me.
When I opened the notebook, there were a few short notes, but they were written in Greek. Flipping the pages, I saw what he saw, Montréal through his eyes. He had sketched people and places, streets, even a cat sitting on a bench outside of a shop.
“Lucy and I went to that bakery.” I grinned, shocked and proud that it still existed. I kept flipping, turning the book every which way to see the work better. “This is why I love art. No matter the language barrier between people, no matter how many years have gone by, it doesn’t expire or lose its wonder. It connects us and makes us feel as if we were right there, too. I always feel like we never thank artists enough. They preserved a world by hand before cameras did. They show us so much of the world and their thoughts on it. Like this.” I pointed, looking back up at him to find him smiling as he watched me. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“No, I beg of you, go on. What of this?” he asked, looking down at the page I pointed to. “It is of two wealthy women about to step out of their car.”
“Yes, but look where you drew the woman’s gaze.” I followed it across the page. “She is gazing at the driver, her hand just about touching him. We can’t see the driver’s face because his head is down, but we can see the corner of his mouth. He’s smiling. It makes me think they might be lovers.”
“Or friends,” he shot back.
“Or friends,” I repeated, dissatisfied. “Though I prefer lovers, and seeing as how you can’t remember it’s up to the viewer to decide.”
“Another reason you enjoy art?” he mused. “You can create love stories from it?”
“You’re teasing me, but you’re the one who drew the picture. And this.” I pointed to the next sketch of a family. A man and his wife, her carrying the child in her arms, and her husband grinning widely at the child.
“We are going to be late,” he said, trying to take the book from me, but I put it behind my back quickly and got in his face.
“You’re a sucker for romance, too, Mr. Sweet Talker.”
His jaw cracked to the side. “Do you know how many I have killed, young one?”
“Oh, is this the part of the story where you try
to convince me you are a bad, dangerous man?” I giggled, thinking of how many times I had read those types of scenes. “Are you forgetting the first time I saw you? You were naked in the forest, feeding from bodies. If I didn’t get that you were big and bad then—”
“Thank you for calling me big. I have always been unsatisfied with the depictions of the Greek form, especially in sculpture.”
Oh my God.
He chuckled, kissing my cheek, and I was so frozen in shock by his long-winded compliment to himself that I didn’t notice he took the sketchbook until it was too late.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.
“You are…” I didn’t have words, nor did it matter because I heard the elevator. Ignoring his arm, I walked myself over to it.
It only took a moment to arrive. When the engraved doors opened, Lucy was there dressed in layers upon layers of royal blue, yellow, and black silks, with flower petals on the shoulders and the hem of the gown. Her black hair, half up and down, had different jewels of flowers in the top. She looked like an ancient Korean princess.
“See, what did I tell you?” She spoke to Taelon, who was dressed in matching silk robes, his black hair brought forward to give him side bangs, but his hair was much longer now, almost as long as hers. “Druella was too stubborn to give in just yet.”
Wait; what? The spell on me was broken.
“Hello, to you, too, Lucy. Nice outfit,” I said, looking her over again.
There were so many places to look. She even had a jade butterfly pendant dangling from her waist, but half of the butterfly was missing—well not missing, the other one half was on Taelon.
